by Stuart, Anne
“It must have only seemed like hours,” Alys said, closing her eyes as a fierce pain in her head assailed her. The last day and evening were a blur of too many faces, too many voices, too much food and wine. In truth, at the moment she couldn’t precisely remember where she’d gone last night. She knew she’d wanted to find the demon wizard, to force him to leave her sister in peace, but all she could remember was a sleep-drugged haze.
Her eyes shot open in sudden horror, as vague tendrils of memory filtered back. She had seen him. She’d drunk his wine. And maybe it wasn’t sleep that had drugged her at all.
She scrambled out of bed in sudden panic, only to discover she’d slept in her clothes. Her plain, serviceable gown of muddy brown was wrinkled but still tightly fastened, and she still wore her hose, though her soft leather shoes were at the side of the bed. He hadn’t touched her, she knew that with a certainty that she could only call relief.
Claire had risen to her knees, staring at her sister with troubled green eyes. “What happened, Alys? What did you do?”
“I’m… I’m not quite certain,” she confessed, pulling at her crumpled gown. The rest of her clothing was even less flattering than the plain gown, but she would have little choice in the matter of changing. She couldn’t present herself to her brother looking like a slattern.
“I believe I had an audience with Grendel.”
Claire shuddered. “Don’t call him that!” she cried. “I can’t bear the thought of marrying such a monster. I’ll throw myself from a window before I let him touch me…”
“Put your soul at rest, dearest,” Alys said wearily. “He’s going to marry me.”
Claire’s expression was—insultingly—one of shock. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s impossible.”
Memory was coming back, clearer than ever. The dark, shadowy room, lit only by flickering firelight, the honeyed sweetness of the wine, the beguiling murmur of his voice. She’d been astonishingly bold, but he’d been even more shocking.
The only thing she couldn’t remember was what had happened after he told her he would marry her. And how she’d managed to return along those deserted hallways to find herself in bed with her sister once more.
“Not the slightest bit impossible. I went to beg him to leave you alone. He told me he’d already chosen me. There’s the end of it.”
Claire’s expression was one of disbelief. “It makes no sense,” she said after a moment. “Not that any decent, wise man wouldn’t prefer you, my love, but I have yet to discover that men are either wise or decent. And certainly our brother’s wizard could not be counted on to make the right choice. I would have thought he would have preferred beauty…” Her voice trailed off before Alys’s ironic expression. “You know what I mean,” she mumbled contritely.
“Perhaps he prefers a wife capable of tact,” Alys stated, stripping off the rest of her clothes to bathe using the icy bowl of water left by their bedstead. “Or someone who’ll fade into the background and leave him in peace. I have no idea, but I’m not about to quarrel with it. Neither should you. Count your blessings that I’m to be sacrificed to the monster and not you.”
Claire immediately burst into noisy tears, but for once, Alys made no move to comfort her. She was cold, she was weary, and her head ached abominably. On top of that, she was the one who would wed the monster, not Claire. If anyone deserved comfort, it was she.
Except that Simon of Navarre hadn’t seemed quite so monstrous in the midnight stillness of his tower room. He frightened her, there was no denying that, but he fascinated her as well. And if he’d sold his soul to Beelzebub in return for infernal powers, at least that lord of demons had granted him a surprising measure of physical beauty as well. Except for that poor, twisted hand that lay useless in his lap as he watched her, he was quite… bewitching.
She pulled on a fresh shift. There was still no sign of their absent serving women, and Alys had no intention of standing around in the drafty room without clothes. She was lost in thought while Claire, unused to being ignored, gradually stilled her noisy sobs to stare at her sister in growing suspicion. “You don’t actually fancy the creature, do you?” she whispered.
Alys started guiltily. “Hardly that, Claire,” she said briskly. “But neither do I find him repugnant. I’m sure we’ll manage a comfortable life…”
“A comfortable life?” Claire shrieked. “Alys, he’s a monster! He’s enchanted you, with one of his evil spells. We must get back to the convent, to see Brother Emory at once. He’ll know what to do to break the spell. Sister Agnes could prepare you a potion…”
“He hasn’t enchanted me,” Alys said calmly. Wishing she were absolutely certain of it.
“How else could you view marriage to a monster with such equanimity?”
Alys sighed. There were times when her beloved Claire’s flair for the dramatic could be extremely tiresome. “If by any chance he happened to bewitch me, then I suppose it’s just as well I’ve been blinded by magic. One of us has to marry him, and we’re fortunate that he’s chosen me and not you. If I go to my marriage bed under an enchantment then perhaps it’s God’s mercy.”
“I wouldn’t put God and that demon’s name in the same sentence,” Claire said darkly. “You’ll bed the creature?”
Alys had her back to Claire, a fortunate circumstance. There was no way she could pretend calm acceptance to that particular aspect of the marriage bargain. “That’s usually part of any marriage,” she said, keeping her face averted. “Unless my lord Grend… Simon of Navarre prefers celibacy.”
“I doubt God would be that merciful,” Claire said. “Perhaps he prefers those of his own sex. ‘Tis often said of wizards.”
Alys struggled for common sense. “Well, I suppose in truth I prefer the company of women, so there’s nothing so odd…”
“I’m not talking about preferring the company of one’s own sex, Alys. I’m talking about bedding them.”
Alys turned at that, shocked. “Wherever did you hear of such things?”
For the first time in days Claire smiled her bewitchingly naughty smile. “The nuns gossip when they think no one’s around.”
“How could men prefer to mate with their own sex? How could they… ?”
“Some women do as well. Particularly among the nuns.”
“I don’t believe you,” Alys said flatly.
“For a woman as learned as you are, I’m surprised at how innocent you can be.”
“You’ve spent too much time around the stables.”
“And you’ve spent too little,” Claire shot back. “One can learn a great deal about human nature by watching the beasts.”
“Are you going to tell me that horses mate with their own sex?”
“No, I gather that’s a human trait. And if your future husband shares it we can only be thankful. It would also explain why he preferred you to me.”
Alys could only laugh at her sister’s ingenuous statement. “Dearest, you really are captivated with yourself,” she said.
Claire’s smile was endearingly wry. “I know. It was ever one of my failings. But it’s not my particular accomplishment, to be so lovely. God simply granted it to me, and I’m not certain it was such a great gift after all. There are times when I wish I were a plain, simple woman with plain, simple wants.”
“Like me,” Alys said.
“No, not like you. You are far too clever, and a great deal more complicated than I could ever wish to be. No, when I see the peasant women, surrounded by children and a loving husband, all their lives in strict order, I wish I could change places with them.”
“I’m certain they’d gladly change places with you,” Alys said. The silvered glass that showed her reflection was wavery, which was just as well. She doubted her image would please her, particularly in the ill-fitting gray kirtle.
“And when does Grendel make his announcement’” Claire demanded, climbing out of bed and yawning extravagantly.
“I have no notion. Perhaps he’s
already told our brother… Don’t call him that!” she said belatedly.
“You called him that yourself.”
“It was a slip of the tongue. He’s no monster, Claire.”
All lightness and humor vanished from Claire’s lovely face. “Are you certain, Alys?”
• “I don’t believe in monsters. They’re stories from childhood, told by the nuns to scare us into behaving. They don’t really exist.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Claire said. “I mean, are you certain you’re willing to marry him? Surely we could do something to stop it? Perhaps Lady Hedwiga would help us when she returns. If you really dreaded it I imagine it wouldn’t take much to make him change his mind again. You’ve always taken such good care of me, I would do anything you wanted. I would be willing to… sacrifice myself.”
And she meant it. Of that Alys had little doubt. Claire’s heart was good and kind and generous, beneath her youthful folly and self-absorption. She would marry the monster for her sister’s sake. She would die for her sister’s sake.
And in return, it was the least that Alys could do for her. Her future had never appeared to be particularly glorious. She was too plain, too clever, too outspoken. Lord Richard’s interference would only make things worse, not better.
In all, marriage to the magician would probably be no great disaster. If, as Claire suggested, he preferred his own sex, then that would be a relief. One that would deny her the joy of children, but Claire would have dozens of them, and Alys was prepared to be a splendid aunt.
In all, things were working out as well as could be expected. She had accomplished what she set out to accomplish, and all would be well.
If only she didn’t have this looming presentiment of utter and complete disaster.
“I’m not afraid of Simon of Navarre, or of marriage,” she said calmly. Lying.
Claire nodded, satisfied. “Then let’s go break the news to our dear brother. And see what alternative he has in store for me.”
Chapter Four
The Great Hall of Summersedge Keep was alive with activity that late morning. Richard had already broken his fast earlier that day, but he’d grown increasing fond of food and ale, and he ate heartily of bread and cheese and honey while he surveyed his motley household.
Simon of Navarre barely touched the food in front of him. He had few weaknesses, and food and drink were not numbered among them. He was far more interested in observing the inhabitants of the keep and their relationships with their lord and master.
Richard the Fair wasn’t quite a prince, though he doubtless wished he were. Second cousin to Henry the Third, the boy king, he could trace his lineage back to William the Conqueror, but then, so could countless others. He had a household of more than two hundred strong, knights and squires, family members and retainers, soldiers and servants. And of course, the castle magician. The wizard, the monster who haunted the corridors and frightened small children. The Grendel.
Simon of Navarre kept his expression calm and clear, ignoring the wary glances, the furtive crossing motions when his gaze would happen to drift across some hapless soul. Even the knights, stalwart and fearless in battle, would do their best to avoid his path. Men like Sir Thomas du Rhaymer would rather face a dozen battle axes than the spawn of the devil.
It was Sir Thomas who particularly amused Simon of Navarre. Sir Thomas, with the whoring wife and the stern morality. Sir Thomas, who never sinned and yet managed to spend a goodly time confessing to Brother Jerome his slightest transgressions.
Simon of Navarre had observed the look in Thomas’s eyes when he first gazed on Richard’s sisters. The pain, and the longing, quickly repressed when Claire had moved into view. Followed by disapproval as fierce as Thomas’s courage.
Which would prove stronger, Thomas’s stern morals or Claire’s wild beauty? The conflict would be interesting over the next few weeks, and distracting for a brother intent on evil deeds. If Claire didn’t do her part, Simon of Navarre had every intention of replacing Thomas with someone more tempting. Richard might think he had the running of his household, but in that he was deluded. For the past three years his wizard had seen to it that he got everything he wanted, and not a soul had interfered. Lady Hedwiga ignored his very existence, too absorbed in her solitude to bother with her household, and Richard was too intent on the pursuit of pleasure. Leaving Simon in power.
He didn’t think he was going to have to change Claire’s guardian, though. His instincts about such things were infallible, and the flighty Claire would be illogical enough to fancy a stern moralist such as Sir Thomas. Particularly a married one, forever out of her reach.
Indeed, as Lady Claire cast a glance over the assembled knights, her eyes lingered momentarily upon Thomas. Perhaps it was simply because he was staring at her with fixed disapproval. Perhaps it was because Thomas was undoubtedly an extremely handsome man.
Or perhaps it was just the beneficent workings of fate.
“Claire!” Richard shouted in greeting, dipping a piece of bread in his goblet of dark ale. “Come sit between me and your future husband and tell us what you wish of us. I’ve a mind to give you a jeweled collar that belongs to my lady wife. Hedwiga has a thick neck but a very great deal of money, and now she has embraced God and eschewed decoration, including her jewels. It would look far prettier on your slender neck.”
The beauty had torn her gaze away from Sir Thomas’s, and she now looked at her brother with confused dismay, stealing a glance at his companion as well.
So the elder sister had promised her all would be well, Simon of Navarre surmised, and now she didn’t know what to believe. He wondered how much Alys remembered of the previous night. The wine had been drugged, and she was already weary and nervous when she approached the solitude of his tower rooms. He’d been both astonished and enchanted by her temerity. There were few men who would dare seek out his presence, and no women. With the exception of this plain, fierce little wren.
She was there, of course, blending in with the somberly-dressed serving women. Her gown today was even more dreary than the brown thing she had worn yesterday, something he wouldn’t have thought possible. It was too long for her small frame, too large to show her plump curves to advantage. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her pale face, and she looked as if she were in pain. He suspected she was. The potion she’d drunk down so heartily the night before exacted its own penance by the following morning, with a pounding head and a roiling stomach, particularly if one was unused to it.
She was looking at him as well, with a combination of hope and confusion. Perhaps she thought she’d dreamed her encounter with him last night. After all, she had slept like the dead when he’d had her borne back to her own rooms.
He hadn’t wanted to let anyone else touch her, but he couldn’t risk being seen. He’d had Piers, a strong young man with no interest in members of the opposite sex, lift her up in his arms and carry her with a maternal tenderness, and Simon of Navarre had followed, watching, intent, half wishing she’d awaken and he could send Piers away.
But she’d slept soundly, as her sister had when Piers set Alys down on the high bed beside her. Claire’s silken hair lay spread around her, and her pale, lovely flesh was exposed above the thin chemise, but neither Piers nor Simon of Navarre noticed, for their own, disparate reasons.
He’d dismissed Piers, giving in to the temptation to stand watching Alys as she slept. Alys, with the pale face and the plump body, all fierceness drained from her soul by the drugged sleep he’d offered her.
Christ, but he wanted her! It was an odd feeling, after having kept his hungers in check for so many years. He was used to controlling his needs, but this small, unspectacular woman was having a strange effect on him. If he didn’t know better he’d suspect witchcraft.
Ah, but he was the expert at witchcraft around here. He knew, better than anyone, what was possible and what was not. And there was no possibility on this green earth that he would fall under the spell o
f a woman, particularly an ordinary little creature like Lady Alys of Summersedge.
She should have been a nun. But then, he’d been a monk for a brief period of time, and he knew far too well that holy orders couldn’t quell unholy desires. He had looked down at her as she lay in her bed, and wanted her.
Then her sister had stirred, and silently Simon of Navarre had slipped back into the darkness. Claire had sat up, alert, but in the shifting shadows she could see nothing. She simply sank down on the bed again, falling back into a deep sleep.
And Simon of Navarre had wished her at perdition. He wanted to be the one to lie beside Alys’s body, feel her warmth, listen to her breathe. He wanted to strip the ugly clothes from her body and discover just what fascinated him so.
He was still distracted by that curiosity the next day, as he sat in the chair beside Richard, watching her. He hadn’t slept, though that was not unusual, and now he accepted the fact that it wasn’t time for him to satisfy either his curiosity or his inexplicable lust. He was a man used to waiting, to making sure the opportunity offered the most. He would wait for Alys. For a while.
“My lord,” Simon of Navarre said gently, but Richard had had enough ale to ignore him, something he was usually too wise to do.
“You may sit on my left hand, Alys,” he brayed magnanimously. “Don’t worry, we’ll find you a husband. Though it might help if you could find something better to wear. That gown looks like it came from the charity box at the abbey. Your looks are nothing to brag of, but you could improve matters with a bit of color. Don’t you think so, Grendel?” he demanded.
“I would hesitate to contradict you, my lord,” he murmured. Claire had stopped, unwilling to move closer, and Alys practically barreled into her.